I hate wind chimes. I remember sitting on Grandma’s porch with her everyday, talking, waiting for Jim the mailman, watching people as they walk down our alley. There were always wind chimes. I could hear them, and until I grew up and actually started living, I never cared.
Conemaugh is a wonderful place to grow up, but a terrible place to live. All throughout high school, I cursed my father for making me live here, and I always wondered how the hell he could stand it. It’s an uneventful, rainy, unattractive, sleepy little western Pennsylvania town. And worst of all: there were always wind chimes.
I hear those damn things in my sleep, ringing brightly with no real tune or rhythm. They haunt me constantly, reminding me of just how much I hate this place.
I’m sitting outside, counting cars. It’s noon. You would think the streets would be buzzing, but nothing’s coming. High traffic here means five cars, maximum. All I hear are wind chimes.
I get my money.
“Hello? I’d like to buy a ticket to New York…”